A Lovely form there sate beside my bed,And such a feeding calm its presence shed,A tender love so pure from earthly leaven,That I unnethe the fancy might control,'Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven,Wooing its gentle way into my soul!But ah! the change—It had not stirr'd, and yet—Alas! that change how fain would I forget!That shrinking back, like one that had mistook!That weary, wandering, disavowing look!'Twas all another, feature, look, and frame,And still, methought, I knew, it was the same!
This riddling tale, to what does it belong?Is't history? vision? or an idle song?Or rather say at once, within what spaceOf time this wild disastrous change took place?
Call it amoment'swork (and such it seems)This tale's a fragment from the life of dreams;But say, that years matur'd the silent strife,And 'tis a record from the dream of life.
No more 'twixt conscience staggering and the PopeSoon shall I now before my God appear,By him to be acquitted, as I hope;By him to be condemned, as I fear.—
Lynx amid moles! had I stood by thy bed,Be of good cheer, meek soul! I would have said:I see a hope spring from that humble fear.All are not strong alike through storms to steerRight onward. What though dread of threatened deathAnd dungeon torture made thy hand and breathInconstant to the truth within thy heart?That truth, from which, through fear, thou twice didst start,Fear haply told thee, was a learned strife,Or not so vital as to claim thy life:And myriads had reached Heaven, who never knewWhere lay the difference 'twixt the false and true!
Ye, who secure 'mid trophies not your own,Judge him who won them when he stood alone,And proudly talk ofrecreantBerengare—O first the age, and then the man compare!That age how dark! congenial minds how rare!No host of friends with kindred zeal did burn!No throbbing hearts awaited his return!Prostrate alike when prince and peasant fell,He only disenchanted from the spell,Like the weak worm that gems the starless night,Moved in the scanty circlet of his light:And was it strange if he withdrew the rayThat did but guide the night-birds to their prey?
The ascending day-star with a bolder eyeHath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn!Yet not for this, if wise, will we decryThe spots and struggles of the timid Dawn;Lest so we tempt the approaching Noon to scornThe mists and painted vapours of our Morn.
?1826.
Beareth all things.—2 COR. xiii.7.
Gently I took that which ungently came,And without scorn forgave:—Do thou the same.A wrong done to thee think a cat's-eye sparkThou wouldst not see, were not thine own heart darkThine own keen sense of wrong that thirsts for sin,Fear that—the spark self-kindled from within,Which blown upon will blind thee with its glare,Or smother'd stifle thee with noisome air.Clap on the extinguisher, pull up the blinds,And soon the ventilated spirit findsIts natural daylight. If a foe have kenn'd,Or worse than foe, an alienated friend,A rib of dry rot in thy ship's stout side,Think it God's message, and in humble prideWith heart of oak replace it;—thine the gains—Give him the rotten timber for his pains!
1832.
I note the moods and feelings men betray,And heed them more than aught they do or say;The lingering ghosts of many a secret deedStill-born or haply strangled in its birth;These best reveal the smooth man's inward creed!These mark the spot where lies the treasure Worth!
Butler made up of impudence and trick,With cloven tongue prepared to hiss and lick,Rome's brazen serpent—boldly dares discussThe roasting of thy heart, O brave John Huss!And with grim triumph and a truculent gleeAbsolves anew the Pope-wrought perfidy,That made an empire's plighted faith a lie,And fix'd a broad stare on the Devil's eye—(Pleased with the guilt, yet envy-stung at heartTo stand outmaster'd in his own black art!)Yet Butler-
Enough of Butler! we're agreed,Who now defends would then have done the deed.But who not feels persuasion's gentle sway,Who but must meet the proffer'd hand half wayWhen courteous Butler—
POET (aside)
(Rome's smooth go-between!)
Laments the advice that sour'd a milky queen—(For "bloody" all enlighten'd men confessAn antiquated error of the press:)Who, rapt by zeal beyond her sex's bounds,With actual cautery staunch'd the Church's wounds!And tho' he deems, that with too broad a blurWe damn the French and Irish massacre,Yet blames them both—and thinks the Pope might err!What think you now? Boots it with spear and shieldAgainst such gentle foes to take the fieldWhose beckoning hands the mild Caduceus wield?
What think I now? Even what I thought before;—What Butler boasts though Butler may deplore,Still I repeat, words lead me not astrayWhen the shown feeling points a different way.Smooth Butler can say grace at slander's feast,And bless each haut-gout cook'd by monk or priest;Leaves the full lie on Butler's gong to swell,Content with half-truths that do just as well;But duly decks his mitred comrade's flanks,And with him shares the Irish nation's thanks!
So much for you, my friend! who own a Church,And would not leave your mother in the lurch!But when a Liberal asks me what I think—Scared by the blood and soot of Cobbett's ink,And Jeffrey's glairy phlegm and Connor's foam,In search of some safe parable I roam—An emblem sometimes may comprise a tome!
Disclaimant of his uncaught grandsire's mood,I see a tiger lapping kitten's food:And who shall blame him that he purs applause,When brother Brindle pleads the good old cause;And frisks his pretty tail, and half unsheathes his claws!Yet not the less, for modern lights unapt,I trust the bolts and cross-bars of the lawsMore than the Protestant milk all newly lapt,Impearling a tame wild-cat's whisker'd jaws!
1825, or 1826.
With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots,Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots;Rhyme's sturdy cripple, fancy's maze and clue,Wit's forge and fire-blast, meaning's press and screw.
?1818.
Swans sing before they die—'twere no bad thingShould certain persons die before they sing.
Sole Positive of Night!Antipathist of Light!Fate's only essence! primal scorpion rod—The one permitted opposite of God!—Condensed blackness and abysmal stormCompacted to one sceptreArms the Grasp enorm—The Interceptor—The Substance that still casts the shadowDeath!—The Dragon foul and fell—The unrevealable,And hidden one, whose breathGives wind and fuel to the fires of Hell!—Ah! sole despairOf both the eternities in Heaven!Sole interdict of all-bedewing prayer,The all-compassionate!Save to the Lampads SevenReveal'd to none of all the Angelic State,Save to the Lampads Seven,That watch the throne of Heaven!
?1826.
If dead, we cease to be; if total gloomSwallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fareAs summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom,Whose sound and motion not alone declare,Butaretheirwholeof being! If the breathBe Life itself, and not its task and tent,If even a soul like Milton's can know death;O Man! thou vessel purposeless, unmeant,Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes!Surplus of Nature's dread activity,Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finished vase,Retreating slow, with meditative pause,She formed with restless hands unconsciously.Blank accident! nothing's anomaly!If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state,Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy fears,The counter-weights!—Thy laughter and thy tearsMean but themselves, each fittest to createAnd to repay each other! Why rejoicesThy heart with hollow joy for hollow good?Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood,Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices,Image of Image, Ghost of Ghostly Elf,That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold?Yet what and whence thy gain, if thou withholdThese costless shadows of thy shadowy self?Be sad! be glad! be neither! seek, or shun!Thou hast no reason why! Thou canst have none;Thy being's being is contradiction.
?1815.
The Butterfly the ancient Grecians madeThe soul's fair emblem, and its only name—But of the soul, escaped the slavish tradeOf earthly life!—For in this mortal frameOur's is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame,Manifold motions making little speed,And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed.
?1815.
He too has flitted from his secret nest,Hope's last and dearest child without a name!—Has flitted from me, like the warmthless flame,That makes false promise of a place of restTo the tired Pilgrim's still believing mind;—Or like some Elfin Knight in kingly court,Who having won all guerdons in his sport,Glides out of view, and whither none can find!
Yes! he hath flitted from me—with what aim,Or why, I know not! 'Twas a home of bliss,And he was innocent, as the pretty shameOf babe, that tempts and shuns the menaced kiss,From its twy-cluster'd hiding place of snow!Pure as the babe, I ween, and all aglowAs the dear hopes, that swell the mother's breast—Her eyes down gazing o'er her clasped charge;—Yet gay as that twice happy father's kiss,That well might glance aside, yet never miss,Where the sweet mark emboss'd so sweet a targe—Twice wretched he who hath been doubly blest!
Like a loose blossom on a gusty nightHe flitted from me—and has left behind(As if to them his faith he ne'er did plight)Of either sex and answerable mindTwo playmates, twin-births of his foster-dame:—The one a steady lad (Esteem he hight)And Kindness is the gentler sister's name.Dim likeness now, though fair she be and good,Of that bright boy who hath us all forsook;—But in his full-eyed aspect when she stood,And while her face reflected every look,And in reflection kindled—she becameSo like him, that almost she seem'd the same!
Ah! he is gone, and yet will not depart!—Is with me still, yet I from him exiled!For still there lives within my secret heartThe magic image of the magic Child,Which there he made up-grow by his strong art,As in that crystal orb—wise Merlin's feat,—The wondrous "World of Glass," wherein inisledAll long'd for things their beings did repeat;—And there he left it, like a Sylph beguiled,To live and yearn and languish incomplete!
Can wit of man a heavier grief reveal?Can sharper pang from hate or scorn arise?—Yes! one more sharp there is that deeper lies,Which fond Esteem but mocks when he would heal.Yet neither scorn nor hate did it devise,But sad compassion and atoning zeal!One pang more blighting-keen than hope betray'd!And this it is my woeful hap to feel,When, at her Brother's hest, the twin-born MaidWith face averted and unsteady eyes,Her truant playmate's faded robe puts on;And inly shrinking from her own disguiseEnacts the faery Boy that's lost and gone.O worse than all! O pang all pangs aboveIs Kindness counterfeiting absent Love!
?1811
Sad lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneelingHe fain would frame a prayer within his breast,Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing,That his sick body might have ease and rest;He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chestAgainst his will the stifling load revealing,Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest,Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast,An alien's restless mood but half concealing,The sternness on his gentle brow confessed,Sickness within and miserable feeling:Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams,And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain,Each night was scattered by its own loud screams:Yet never could his heart command, though fain,One deep full wish to be no more in pain.
That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast,Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood,Though changed in nature, wander where he would—For Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost!For this one hope he makes his hourly moan,He wishes andcanwish for this alone!Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams(So the love-stricken visionary deems)Disease would vanish, like a summer shower,Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower!Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should giveSuch strength that he would bless his pains and live.
Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,It hath not been my use to prayWith moving lips or bended knees;But silently, by slow degrees,My spirit I to Love compose,In humble trust mine eye-lids close,With reverential resignation,No wish conceived, no thought exprest,Only asenseof supplication;A sense o'er all my soul imprestThat I am weak, yet not unblest,Since in me, round me, everywhereEternal Strength and Wisdom are.
But yester-night I pray'd aloudIn anguish and in agony,Up-starting from the fiendish crowdOf shapes and thoughts that tortured me:A lurid light, a trampling throng,Sense of intolerable wrong,And whom I scorned, those only strong!Thirst of revenge, the powerless willStill baffled, and yet burning still!Desire with loathing strangely mixedOn wild or hateful objects fixed.Fantastic passions! maddening brawl!And shame and terror over all!Deeds to be hid which were not hid,Which all confused I could not knowWhether I suffered, or I did:For all seem'd guilt, remorse or woe,My own or others still the sameLife-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame!
So two nights passed: the night's dismaySaddened and stunned the coming day.Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to meDistemper's worst calamity.The third night, when my own loud screamHad waked me from the fiendish dream,O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild,I wept as I had been a child;And having thus by tears subduedMy anguish to a milder mood,Such punishments, I said, were dueTo natures deepliest stained with sin:For aye entempesting anewThe unfathomable hell withinThe horror of their deeds to view,To know and loathe, yet wish and do!Such griefs with such men well agree,But wherefore, wherefore fall on me?To be beloved is all I need,And whom I love, I love indeed.
1803.
Lady. If Love be dead—Poet. And I aver it!Lady. Tell me, Bard! where Love lies buriedPoet. Love lies buried where 'twas born:Oh, gentle dame! think it no scornIf, in my fancy, I presumeTo call thy bosom poor Love's Tomb.And on that tomb to read the line:—"Here lies a Love that once seem'd mine.But took a chill, as I divine,And died at length of a decline."
1833.
Though veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath,Love is a sword which cuts its sheath,And through the clefts itself has made,We spy the flashes of the blade!
But through the clefts itself has made,We likewise see Love's flashing bladeBy rust consumed, or snapt in twain:And only hilt and stump remain.
?1825.
One kiss, dear Maid! I said and sighed—Your scorn the little boon denied.Ah why refuse the blameless bliss?Can danger lurk within a kiss?
Yon viewless wanderer of the vale,The Spirit of the Western Gale,At Morning's break, at Evening's closeInhales the sweetness of the Rose,And hovers o'er the uninjured bloomSighing back the soft perfume.Vigour to the Zephyr's wingHer nectar-breathing kisses fling;And He the glitter of the DewScatters on the Rose's hue.Bashful lo! she bends her head,And darts a blush of deeper Red!
Too well those lovely lips discloseThe triumphs of the opening Rose;O fair! O graceful! bid them proveAs passive to the breath of Love.In tender accents, faint and low,Well-pleased I hear the whispered "No!"The whispered "No"—how little meant!Sweet Falsehood that endears Consent!For on those lovely lips the whileDawns the soft relenting smile,And tempts with feigned dissuasion coyThe gentle violence of Joy.
?1794.
That Jealousy may rule a mindWhere Love could never beI know; but ne'er expect to findLove without Jealousy.
She has a strange cast in her ee,A swart sour-visaged maid—But yet Love's own twin-sister she,His house-mate and his shade.
Ask for her and she'll be denied:—What then? they only meanTheir mistress has lain down to sleep,And can't just then be seen.
I ask'd my fair one happy day,What I should call her in my lay;By what sweet name from Rome or Greece;Lalage, Nesera, Chloris,Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris,Arethusa or Lucrece.
"Ah!" replied my gentle fair,"Beloved, what are names but air?Choose thou whatever suits the line;Call me Sappho, call me Chloris,Call me Lalage or Doris,Only, only call me Thine."
Morning Post, August 27,1799.
Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus.—CATULLUS.
My Lesbia, let us love and live,And to the winds, my Lesbia, giveEach cold restraint, each boding fearOf age and all her saws severe.Yon sun now posting to the mainWill set,—but 'tis to rise again;—But we, when once our mortal lightIs set, must sleep in endless night.Then come, with whom alone I'll live,A thousand kisses take and give!Another thousand!—to the storeAdd hundreds—then a thousand more!And when they to a million mount,Let confusion take the account,—That you, the number never knowing,May continue still bestowing—That I for joys may never pine,Which never can again be mine!
Morning Post, April 11, 1798.
Lugete, O Veneres, Cupidinesque.—CATULLUS.
Pity! mourn in plaintive toneThe lovely starling dead and gone!Pity mourns in plaintive toneThe lovely starling dead and gone.Weep, ye Loves! and Venus! weepThe lovely starling fall'n asleep!Venus sees with tearful eyes—In her lap the starling lies!While the Loves all in a ringSoftly stroke the stiffen'd wing.
?1794.
Unperishing youth!Thou leapest from forthThe cell of thy hidden nativity;Never mortal sawThe cradle of the strong one;Never mortal heardThe gathering of his voices;The deep-murmur'd charm of the son of the rock,That is lisp'd evermore at his slumberless fountain.There's a cloud at the portal, a spray-woven veilAt the shrine of his ceaseless renewing;It embosoms the roses of dawn,It entangles the shafts of the noon,And into the bed of its stillnessThe moonshine sinks down as in slumber,That the son of the rock, that the nursling of heavenMay be born in a holy twilight!
The wild goat in aweLooks up and beholdsAbove thee the cliff inaccessible;—Thou at once full-bornMadd'nest in thy joyance,Whirlest, shatter'st, splitt'st,Life invulnerable.
?1799.
Earth! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the mother,Hail! O Goddess, thrice hail! Blest be thou! and, blessing, I hymn thee!Forth, ye sweet sounds! from my harp, and my voice shall float on your surges—Soar thou aloft, O my soul! and bear up my song on thy pinions.
Travelling the vale with mine eyes—green meadows and lake with green island,Dark in its basin of rock, and the bare stream flowing in brightness,
Thrill'd with thy beauty and love in the wooded slope of the mountain,Here, great mother, I lie, thy child, with his head on thy bosom!Playful the spirits of noon, that rushing soft through thy tresses,Green-hair'd goddess! refresh me; and hark! as they hurry or linger,Fill the pause of my harp, or sustain it with musical murmurs.Into my being thou murmurest joy, and tenderest sadnessShedd'st thou, like dew, on my heart, till the joy and the heavenly sadnessPour themselves forth from my heart in tears, and the hymn of thanksgiving.
Earth! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the mother,Sister thou of the stars, and beloved by the Sun, the rejoicer!Guardian and friend of the moon, O Earth, whom the comets forget not,Yea, in the measureless distance wheel round and again they behold thee!Fadeless and young (and what if the latest birth of creation?)Bride and consort of Heaven, that looks down upon thee enamour'd!
Say, mysterious Earth! O say, great mother and goddess,Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap was ungirdled,Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he woo'd thee and won thee!Fair was thy blush, the fairest and first of the blushes of morning!Deep was the shudder, O Earth! the throe of thy self-retention:Inly thou strovest to flee, and didst seek thyself at thy centre!Mightier far was the joy of thy sudden resilience; and forthwithMyriad myriads of lives teem'd forth from the mighty embracement.Thousand-fold tribes of dwellers, impell'd by thousand-fold instincts,Fill'd, as a dream, the wide waters; the rivers sang on their channels;Laugh'd on their shores the hoarse seas; the yearning ocean swell'd upward;Young life low'd through the meadows, the woods, and the echoing mountains,Wander'd bleating in valleys, and warbled on blossoming branches.
?1799.
Never, believe me,Appear the Immortals,Never alone:Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguiler,Iacchus! but in came Boy Cupid the Smiler;Lo! Phoebus the Glorious descends from his throne!They advance, they float in, the Olympians all!With Divinities fills myTerrestrial hall!
How shall I yield youDue entertainment,Celestial quire?Me rather, bright guests! with your wings of upbuoyanceBear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance,That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre!Hah! we mount! on their pinions they waft up my soul!O give me the nectar!O fill me the bowl!
Give him the nectar!Pour out for the poet,Hebe! pour free!Quicken his eyes with celestial dew,That Styx the detested no more he may view,And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be!Thanks, Hebe! I quaff it! Io Pæan, I cry!The wine of the ImmortalsForbids me to die!
? 1799.
She gave with joy her virgin breast;She hid it not, she bared the breastWhich suckled that divinest babe!Blessed, blessed were the breastsWhich the Saviour infant kiss'd;And blessed, blessed was the motherWho wrapp'd his limbs in swaddling clothes,Singing placed him on her lap,Hung o'er him with her looks of love,And soothed him with a lulling motion.Blessed! for she shelter'd himFrom the damp and chilling air;Blessed, blessed! for she layWith such a bade in one blest bed,Close as babes and mothers lie!Blessed, blessed evermore,With her virgin lips she kiss'd,With her arms, and to her breast,She embraced the babe divine,Her babe divine the virgin mother!There lives not on this ring of earthA mortal that can sing her praise.Mighty mother, virgin pure,In the darkness and the nightFor us sheborethe heavenly Lord!
? 1799.
Dormi, Jesu! Mater ridetQuæ tarn dulcem somnum videt,Dormi, Jesu! blandule!Si non dormis, Mater plorat,Inter fila cantans orat,Blande, veni, somnule.
Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling:Mother sits beside thee smiling;Sleep, my darling, tenderly!If thou sleep not, mother mourneth,Singing as her wheel she turneth:Come, soft slumber, balmily!
1811.
Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade,Death came with friendly care;The opening bud to Heaven conveyed,And bade it blossom there.
1794.
"Be, rather than be call'd, a child of God,"Death whisper'd!—with assenting nod,Its head upon its mother's breast,The Baby bow'd, without demur—Of the kingdom of the BlestPossessor, not inheritor.
April 8th, 1799.
Its balmy lips the infant blestRelaxing from its mother's breast,How sweet it heaves the happy sighOf innocent satiety!
And such my infant's latest sigh!Oh tell, rude stone! the passer by,That here the pretty babe doth lie,Death sang to sleep with Lullaby.
1799.
I know it is dark; and though I have lain,Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain,I have not once open'd the lids of my eyes,But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies.O Rain! that I lie listening to,You're but a doleful sound at best:I owe you little thanks,'tis true,For breaking thus my needful rest!Yet if, as soon as it is light,O Rain! you will but take your flight,I'll neither rail, nor malice keep,Though sick and sore for want of sleep.But only now, for this one day,Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound,The clash hard by, and the murmur all round!You know, if you know aught, that we,Both night and day, but ill agree:For days and months, and almost years,Have limp'd on through this vale of tears,Since body of mine, and rainy weather,Have lived on easy terms together.Yet if, as soon as it is light,O Rain! you will but take your flight,Though you should come again to-morrow,And bring with you both pain and sorrow;Though stomach should sicken and knees should swell—I'll nothing speak of you but well.But only now for this one day,Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to sayYou're a good creature in your way;Nay, I could write a book myself,Would fit a parson's lower shelf,Showing how very good you are. —What then? sometimes it must be fair!And if sometimes, why not to-day?Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
Dear Rain! if I've been cold and shy,Take no offence! I'll tell you why.A dear old Friend e'en now is here,And with him came my sister dear;After long absence now first met,Long months by pain and grief beset—We three dear friends! in truth, we groanImpatiently to be alone.We three, you mark! and not one more!The strong wish makes my spirit sore.We have so much to talk about,So many sad things to let out;So many tears in our eye-corners,Sitting like little Jacky Homers—In short, as soon as it is day,Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain!Whenever you shall come again,Be you as dull as e'er you could(And by the bye 'tis understood,You're not so pleasant as you're good),Yet, knowing well your worth and place,I'll welcome you with cheerful face;And though you stay'd a week or more,Were ten times duller than before;Yet with kind heart, and right good will,I'll sit and listen to you still;Nor should you go away, dear Rain!Uninvited to remain.But only now, for this one day,Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
1802.
Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove,The Linnet and Thrush say, "I love and I love!"In the winter they're silent—the wind is so strong;What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song.But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,And singing, and loving-all come back together.But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,The green fields below him, the blue sky above,That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he—"I love my Love, and my Love loves me!"
1802.
If I had but two little wingsAnd were a little feathery bird,To you I'd fly, my dear!But thoughts like these are idle things,And I stay here.
But in my sleep to you I fly:I'm always with you in my sleep!The world is all one's own.But then one wakes, and where am I?All, all alone.
Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:So I love to wake ere break of day:For though my sleep be gone,Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,And still dreams on.
April 23, 1799.
Encinctured with a twine of leaves,That leafy twine his only dress!A lovely Boy was plucking fruits,By moonlight, in a wilderness.The moon was bright, the air was free,And fruits and flowers together grew,On many a shrub and many a tree:And all put on a gentle hue,Hanging in the shadowy airLike a picture rich and rare.It was a climate where, they say,The night is more belov'd than day.But who that beauteous Boy beguil'd,That beauteous Boy to linger here?Alone, by night, a little child,In place so silent and so wild-Has he no friend, no loving mother near?
1798.
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?Where may the grave of that good man be?—By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,Under the twigs of a young birch tree!The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,And whistled and roar'd in the winter alone,Is gone,—and the birch in its stead is grown.—The Knight's bones are dust,And his good sword rust;—His soul is with the saints, I trust.
? 1817.
_The Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendée.FAMINEis discovered lying on the ground; to her enterFIREandSLAUGHTER.
Fam.Sisters! sisters! who sent you here?
Slau.[to Fire]. I will whisper it in her ear.
Fire.No! no! no!Spirits hear what spirits tell:'Twill make an holiday in Hell.No! no! no!Myself, I named him once below,And all the souls, that damned be,Leaped up at once in anarchy,Clapped their hands and danced for glee.They no longer heeded me;But laughed to hear Hell's burning raftersUnwillingly re-echo laughters!No! no! no!Spirits hear what spirits tell:'Twill make an holiday in Hell!
Fam.Whisper it, sister! so and so!In the dark hint, soft and slow.
Slau.Letters four do form his name-And who sent you?
Both.The same! the same!
Slau.He came by stealth, and unlocked myden,And I have drunk the blood since thenOf thrice three hundred thousand men.
Both.Who bade you do't?
Slau.The same! the same!Letters four do form his name.He let me loose, and cried Halloo!To him alone the praise is due.
Fam.Thanks, sister, thanks! the men have bled,Their wives and their children faint for bread.I stood in a swampy field of battle;With bones and skulls I made a rattle,To frighten the wolf and carrion-crowAnd the homeless dog—but they would not go.So off I flew: for how could I bearTo see them gorge their dainty fare?I heard a groan and a peevish squall,And through the chink of a cottage-wall—Can you guess what I saw there?
Both. Whisper it, sister! in our ear.
Fam. A baby beat its dying mother: I had starved the one and was starving the other!
Both. Who bade you do't?
Fam. The same! the same!Letters four do form his name.He let me loose, and cried Halloo!To him alone the praise is due.
Fire. Sisters! I from Ireland came!Hedge and corn-fields all on flame,I triumph'd o'er the setting sun!And all the while the work was done,On as I strode with my huge strides,I flung back my head and I held my sides,It was so rare a piece of funTo see the sweltered cattle runWith uncouth gallop through the night,Scared by the red and noisy light!By the light of his own blazing cotWas many a naked Rebel shot:The house-stream met the flame and hissed,While crash! fell in the roof, I wist,On some of those old bed-rid nurses,That deal in discontent and curses.
Both.Who bade you do't?
Fire.The same! the same!Letters four do form his name.He let me loose, and cried Halloo!To him alone the praise is due.
All.He let us loose, and cried Halloo!How shall we yield him honour due?
Fam.Wisdom comes with lack of food.I'll gnaw, I'll gnaw the multitude,Till the cup of rage o'erbrim:They shall seize him and his brood—
Slau.They shall tear him limb from limb!
Fire.O thankless beldames and untrue!And is this all that you can doFor him, who did so much for you?Ninety months he, by my troth!Hath richly catered for you both;And in an hour would you repayAn eight years' work?—Away! away!I alone am faithful! ICling to him everlastingly.
1797.
The Devil believes that the Lord will come,Stealing a march without beat of drum,About the same time that he came lastOn an old Christmas-day in a snowy blast:Till he bids the trump sound neither body nor soul stirsFor the dead men's heads have slipt under their bolsters.
Ho! ho! brother Bard, in our churchyardBoth beds and bolsters are soft and green;Save one alone, and that's of stone,And under it lies a Counsellor keen.This tomb would be square, if it were not too long;And 'tis rail'd round with iron, tall, spear-like, and strong.
This fellow from Aberdeen hither did skipWith a waxy face and a blubber lip,And a black tooth in front to show in partWhat was the colour of his whole heart.This Counsellor sweet,This Scotchman complete(The Devil scotch him for a snake!),I trust he lies in his grave awake.On the sixth of January,When all around is white with snowAs a Cheshire yeoman's dairy,Brother Bard, ho! ho! believe it, or no,On that stone tomb to you I'll showAfter sunset, and before cock-crow,Two round spaces clear of snow.I swear by our Knight and his forefathers' souls,That in size and shape they are just like the holesIn the large house of privityOf that ancient family.On those two places clear of snowThere have sat in the night for an hour or so,Before sunrise, and after cock-crow(He hicking his heels, she cursing her corns,All to the tune of the wind in their horns),The Devil and his Grannam,With the snow-drift to fan 'em;Expecting and hoping the trumpet to blow;For they are cock-sure of the fellow below!
From his brimstone bed at break of dayA walking the DEVIL is gone,To visit his little snug farm of the earthAnd see how his stock went on.
Over the hill and over the dale,And he went over the plain,And backward and forward he swished his long tailAs a gentleman swishes his cane.
And how then was the Devil drest?Oh! he was in his Sunday's best:His jacket was red and his breeches were blue,And there was a hole where the tail came through.
He saw a LAWYER killing a ViperOn a dung heap beside his stable,And the Devil smiled, for it put him in mindOf Cain andhisbrother, Abel.
A POTHECARY on a white horseRode by on his vocations,And the Devil thought of his old FriendDEATH in the Revelations.
He saw a cottage with a double coach-house,A cottage of gentility!And the Devil did grin, for his darling sinIs pride that apes humility.
He went into a rich bookseller's shop,Quoth he! we are both of one college,For I myself sate like a cormorant onceFast by the tree of knowledge.
Down the river there plied, with wind and tide,A pig with vast celerity;And the Devil look'd wise as he saw how the while,It cut its own throat. "There!" quoth he with a smile,"Goes 'England's commercial prosperity.'"
As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he sawA solitary cell;And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hintFor improving his prisons in Hell.
* * * * * *
General —————- burning faceHe saw with consternation,And back to hell his way did he take,For the Devil thought by a slight mistakeIt was general conflagration.
1799.
In Kohln, a town of monks and bones,And pavements fang'd with murderous stones,And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches;I counted two and seventy stenches,All well denned, and several stinks!Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks,The river Rhine, it is well known,Doth wash your city of Cologne;But tell me, Nymphs! what power divineShall henceforth wash the river Rhine?
Pensive at eve on the hard world I mus'd,And my poor heart was sad: so at the moonI gaz'd-and sigh'd, and sigh'd!—for, ah! how soonEve darkens into night. Mine eye perus'dWith tearful vacancy thedampygrassWhich wept and glitter'd in the paly ray;And I did pause me on my lonely way,And mused me on those wretched ones who passO'er the black heath of Sorrow. But, alas!Most of Myself I thought: when it befellThat the sooth Spirit of the breezy woodBreath'd in mine ear—"All this is very well;But much ofonething is fornothing good."Ah! my poor heart's inexplicable swell!
O! I do love thee, meekSimplicity!For of thy lays the lulling simplenessGoes to my heart and soothes each small distress,Distress though small, yet haply great to me!'Tis true on Lady Fortune's gentlest padI amble on; yet, though I know not why,So sad I am!—but should a friend and IGrow cool andmiff, O! I amverysad!And then with sonnets and with sympathyMy dreamy bosom's mystic woes I pall;Now of my false friend plaining plaintively,Now raving at mankind in general;But, whether sad or fierce, 'tis simple all,All very simple, meek Simplicity!
And this reft house is that the which he built,Lamented Jack! And here his malt he pil'd,Cautious in vain! These rats that squeak so wild,Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt.Did ye not see her gleaming thro' the glade?Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn.What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn,Yetayeshe haunts the dale where erst she stray'd;Andayebeside her stalks her amorous knight!Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn,And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn,His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white;As when thro' broken clouds at night's high noonPeeps in fair fragments forth the full—orb'd harvest-moon!
1797.
Tis a strange place, this Limbo!—not a Place,Yet name it so;—where Time and weary SpaceFettered from flight, with night-mare sense of fleeing,Strive for their last crepuscular half-being;—Lank Space, and scytheless Time with branny handsBarren and soundless as the measuring sands,Not mark'd by flit of Shades,—unmeaning theyAs moonlight on the dial of the day!But that is lovely—looks like human Time,—An old man with a steady look sublime,That stops his earthly task to watch the skies;But he is blind—a statue hath such eyes;—Yet having moonward turn'd his face by chance,Gazes the orb with moon-like countenance,With scant white hairs, with fore top bald and high,He gazes still,—his eyeless face all eye;—As 'twere an organ full of silent sight,His whole face seemeth to rejoice in light!Lip touching lip, all moveless, bust and limb—He seems to gaze at that which seems to gaze on him!No such sweet sights doth Limbo den immure,Wall'd round, and made a spirit-jail secure,By the mere horror of blank Naught-at-all,Whose circumambience doth these ghosts enthral.A lurid thought is growthless, dull Privation,Yet that is but a Purgatory curse;Hell knows a fear far worse,A fear—a future state;—'tis positive Negation!
1817.
[** Macron and breve accent marks have been left off, see the note in the Forum.]
Trochee trips from long to short;From long to long in solemn sortSlow Spondee stalks; strong foot! yea ill ableEver to come up with Dactyl trisyllable.Iambics march from short to long;—With a leap and a bound the swift Anapaests throng;One syllable long, with one short at each side,Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride;—First and last being long, middle short, AmphimacerStrikes his thundering hoofs like a proud highbred Racer.If Derwent be innocent, steady, and wise,And delight in the things of earth, water, and skies;Tender warmth at his heart, with these metres to show it,With sound sense in his brains, may make Derwent a poet,—May crown him with fame, and must win him the loveOf his father on earth and his Father above.My dear, dear child!Could you stand upon Skiddaw, you would not from its whole ridgeSee a man who so loves you as your fond S. T. COLERIDGE.
1803.
Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows,Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the ocean.
? 1799.
In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column;In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.
?1799.
Hear, my beloved, an old Milesian story!—High, and embosom'd in congregated laurels,Glimmer'd a temple upon a breezy headland;In the dim distance amid the skiey billowsRose a fair island; the god of flocks had blest it.From the far shores of the bleat-resounding islandOft by the moonlight a little boat came floating,Came to the sea-cave beneath the breezy headland,Where amid myrtles a pathway stole in mazesUp to the groves of the high embosom'd temple.There in a thicket of dedicated roses,Oft did a priestess, as lovely as a vision,Pouring her soul to the son of Cytherea,Pray him to hover around the slight canoe-boat,And with invisible pilotage to guide itOver the dusk wave, until the nightly sailorShivering with ecstasy sank upon her bosom.
? 1799.
I mix in life, and labour to seem free,With common persons pleased and common things,While every thought and action tends to thee,And every impulse from thy influence springs.
? 1796.
Under this stone does Walter Harcourt lie,Who valued nought that God or man could give;He lived as if he never thought to die;He died as if he dared not hope to live!
1801.
Ere the birth of my life, if I wish'd it or no,No question was asked me—it could not be so!If the life was the question, a thing sent to try,And to live on be Yes; what can No be? to die.
Is't returned, as 'twas sent? Is't no worse for the wear?Think first, what you are! Call to mind what you were!I gave you innocence, I gave you hope,Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope.Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair?Make out the invent'ry; inspect, compare!Then die—if die you dare!
1811.
"How seldom, friend! a good great man inheritsHonour or wealth with all his worth and pains!It sounds like stories from the land of spiritsIf any man obtain that which he meritsOr any merit that which he obtains."
For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strain!What would'st thou have a good great man obtain?Place? titles? salary? a gilded chain?Or throne of corses which his sword had slain?Greatness and goodness are notmeans, butends!Hath he not always treasures, always friends,The good great man?threetreasures, LOVE, and LIGHT,And CALM THOUGHTS, regular as infant's breath:And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,HIMSELF, his MAKER, and the ANGEL DEATH!
Morning Post, Sept. 23,1802.